We drive into a teatime fracas. On one side of the street are two men, mean and middle aged. They are both roaring and bawling, faces twisted and menacing. Opposite is a younger woman, half kneeling in the middle of the road, yelling and screaming back at them. We are forced to stop in front of her and as we draw up the two men turn about heel and storm off.
At this, the girl runs to our window shouting, "Gonny phone the ambulance," pointing over to the kerb where we see a man lying crouched over with blood pouring from a wound on his head.
"Gonny phone," she's saying over again and again and her face is chalk white, her wide blue eyes staring out behind her knotted fringe.
Her pal is sitting up and the blood all over his face is dripping off his nose and smeared across his hands.
His lordship dials 999 and asks for Ambulance Service, gives our Govan location and describes the scene.
All the while, the man is sitting so very still and silent, not stirring, not groaning, no movement, no noise.
Looking back on it, he must have been summoning up every ounce of strength and willpower for in the next instant, just as 999 is asking for his condition, he rocks forward and in one lurch, rises to his feet and stands there, swaying for a moment. as though in slow motion. Suddenly, he lumbers forward with unsteady gait; a Frankenstein monster, blood soaked and frightening. His steps are slow but determined and he staggers down the road and won't be stopped by anyone.